Unperceived DepthsThere is a bright and shining hope. The water shimmers and engulfs the view as glossy red metal subs plunge into the green depths. The mossy things under the waves, shrieking horrors despite the silence of the crushing darkness. Insanity lays siege to the lights. Duty calls every man to sit as the world slips away.
The surface will not miss them but they will long for the time they can leave the pressurized chambers. They feel it behind the walls. The crew know it is there even if they don’t look. If they study their screens hard enough, read every syllable of their books, dot every “i” on their formal paperwork; They still know the insanity that lurks just outside. They see it through their closed eyes. The insanity waits outside peering through the hull with their gouged sockets. The feel the men. They taste their fear and bite away at their control.
The things outside are little more than ghosts and much more. Few have hands left. What fingers were left were sacrif
The day, the nightThe day, the night, the standing light in the standing time between the day and the rhyme. No one suspects the ever living, ticking betraying stance of themselves. No one counters their own rebellions as the wage on in the soul and the sound of the hallowed ground. there aren't as many police as they think. the safety they imagine is just that because no one can save us from ourselves. Where the cattle and goats feed of the land, we consume our souls. We forsake what we hold dear because nothing else quite feels like it is worth the time to defile. there is an epidemic in my mind that reeks the whole mind and seeks to destroy the images of a boy and taint the stance of a man.
The girls with their pearls all rolling in the light shimmer in the glimmer of destruction’s light. Those that detect and collect respect that there are no boundaries for where the dollar has power.
Lies stack up and we experience truth through fictions. The only truth is true with the imagination. Relevant
Over IndulgentThere was a time for us. I haven't written about you in a while. There was a time when I wrote about you every day. I missed you. Now, I just want someone to hug. You don't hug me. You haven't hugged me in a long time.
There was a time when you hated people. You hated them for me and for my honor. You said that they disrespected me and you didn't like them for it. I was proud and happy and content with you and you alone. I was happy to have someone so devoted to me. Someone to ring my cause before I knew I had one.
I still have people that ring my cause. People that stand up for me and hate on my behalf. It is different now because they hate you. They hate you for what you did to me. For what you said. For the year of grieving that you did not deserve. They hate you and you will never be welcomed back to my cause. I vetoed your exile. I tried to leave the door open for your return. They came back with a super majority. The override came swiftly. You don't want back and they don't want
Just because it is a cycle, doesn't mean it is allThe idea of quitting is nothing new. You let the words bounce around your head and then you let them spew. In private, alone. In the alley behind your home. you drain your throat of everything in your head and hope it leave you alone. but it breaks down into the soil and gets swept back up into the drains. and washing out into the oceans where liquid has few names. Until it is hoisted up into the sky and fluffs out into clouds that methodically pass you by. The ideas went back inside you and come down as rain but you stay indoors dry and insane.
The HikerThe snow fell in sweet silence on the serien meadow. The thin trees stood inches apart from each other filling the expanse. There is blood pooling in my sock. I don't know what to do with it. The others knew first aid. They were headed nowhere, though. This is the right direction. I know it. These surroundings are completely new. I am bound to hit land soon. I can take care of my foot then.
Oh. Apparently my shoe has soaked through. There are red footprints leading up to me. Life is funny sometimes. It is kind of hard to breath. I think I will sit down, take some nice deep breaths.
that is funny. My tan seems to be gone. I guess this will just let me get tanner. The guys at the office will be impressed. The office seems like a completely different reality from this place. Everything is calm. Nothing cares for what time it is. Things happen and succeed without demanding everyone's attention. Why do I feel like everything is looking at me?
I kind of get the appeal of nature, t
Our Dead SelvesTo all of our dead selves. they lie there. damaged, dismembered, dead. Every lifeless husk in various stages of rot and or preservation. The glassed over charred one, still hanging off the chimney. I don't even remember which of the husks was me. They don't stab. It is oddly suspicious but I stopped asking questions long ago. We ran out of bullets after a few months. The early corpses are further away. Back then we were disturbed by the contradiction of our dead selves being burried by our living bodies. We use to go so far out that we lost a few bodies. Hell, we lost a lot of bodies.
We use to bury ourselves, too. Use to call ourselves "them" and "it." We use to fight about what exactly the corpses should be called. We agreed to disagree a few times but that didn't last. We would try to trek out to our graveyard in silence but we would get to talking and directing and then the shovels would be dropped as we both pulled swords. The swords lasted longer than the ammunition but those sho
Sitting Quietly in Pale WhiteSitting quietly in a pale white breakroom. You can tell a break room because it looks desperately and thoroughly used for fifteen minute increments several times a day and lacks any real distinction of style outside of borrowed furniture, lockers of questionable safety, and vending machines. It makes an obscene amount of sense that one soda company would be contracted to sell in the store but another would own the machine in the breakroom. The steadiest most desperate patrons would be employees. The illusion of choice in lieu of laziness. It is always easier and cheaper to bring refreshments but that is if planning was easy.
He sits there in the breakroom holding a red leather journal. Fountain pen floating centimeters over the page with the constant threat of leaving ink in strategic places that convey meaning to discerning onlookers. He stares at the pop machine and thinks about the illusion of choice and the its threat to free will. The clock is broken and the second hand twitches u
Heart Pounding my Brain
Today is the day. I cannot think about it, too long. Otherwise, I get sick to my stomach. I am going to ask out the obscenely cute girl, from work. Ambiguously single with at several male friends but she is proprietary single, none the less. I'm still unsure, though.
I have come up with a plan. I will get her attention.I won't bring up any other bullshit to talk about, straight to the point. I will ask if she is seeing anyone and I will request that we go out sometime. When do I take her out?
She has told me she is busy. Quite the busy girl, all the time. I am available late or early, whenever. I don't know when we both will be available. I could take her out at work. No, that would be unpleasant, embarrassing, and not at all romantic. Should I really be planing dates right now? That would look weird, right? If I go from being unaware of her relationship status to throwing times and places at her. I can only see that ending in dodge ball, I want to avoid that metaphor.
So, setting up a
The Beautiful ClownsThere is another one. Tall blond, shutter-shade sunglasses, pink novelty tee, and jeans that show me too much ass. We are trying to march down this boulevard to make a scene. Me and my gang, we aren't funny and are not here to chase tail, even if we did find it mildly attractive. Pocka-dots and an ironic sense of humor. When the clowns roll walk into where you live, you will find that you were on our turf all along.
This was a long time coming. We should have just taken what was ours. We had a girl selling on a street corner. Snow, not ass, we don't sell ass. We give stupid people stuff that keeps them stupid and there is no woman who deserves to be some banker's sweet escape. I find that women fight just as well as men, if they are treated like they can. Mother's fight better, pain tolerance and a constant angry stare.
Take Bridge, she was fourteen when we found her. Skinny as wire on a fence and high on crack. I don't give wasts of girls like that a second look but not Bridge. Even o
we who are wearywe who were afraid of those dim evenings,
homesick for the soft rains which were
are uncertain again of
the waning stroke of the moon.
we who embrace the wicked
leave the seasons to maneuver themselves
and wind into each other,
sure of their graceful oblivion.
we who are weary descend,
following our fingers as they are rising,
the thick air before it can kill,
we who were once war personified,
warn them of our great coming.
and we shall not run,
january, the last moonbase of 2014The fatigue-factories
for the holidays,
into light, casual clouds.
It's two weeks of middling sleep,
a lucidity in calm.
I'll read Kushner and Heany,
rest like the pigeon guards
snoozing in the peaceful night
when morning, their branch-goblet
capturing the arctic infinity
of moisture above.
The moon, shining,
In This Little Microcosm
In this little microcosm
a world of patterns exist
Water and sand collide, creating intricate forms.
Some smooth and long, others tight.
Parts of the earth, stronger and fixed,
splays playground about which to caper.
Daily, at first moon's signal,
water rushes in, at times in torrent, by others, caress.
Each day's forces create their own patterns,
in deference to this fluid and complex dance.
Then, at second moon's signal,
water retreats, as sand becomes calm and nestled,
spiriting away particles to mix for return,
whilst lingering dampness absorbs.
How would water know complexity without sand's presence?
The contrast of murkiness and clarity?
How would sand refine and nourish life
without the movement of water?
And of the stone...
What would the water flow around and over?
What sensation would exist,
to define the water's dexterous nature against its solid lover?
And the stone, without water,
would never know smooth form,
nor polished finish, born of time and persistence,
nor wet reli
Wolf TrailA pair of eyes
in the darkness
of the night.
He has taken
through the forest.
in the thicket
and under cover of the trees,
he sneaks up.
He persists ...
does someone catch sight
Why has he
left his pack?
Why does he sneak
through the forests?
They tell of times
He was weak -
at that time,
too weak to hunt,
too weak to protect.
The weak are
So, he was
he has been passing alone
through the forests,
has been oberserving
has been dreaming ...
he turns away,
in the darkness
of the forest.
On the ground,
remains behind ...
by the moonlight ...
The tear of the wolf.
Life of mist / Viata din ceataEnglish:
I see the life of mist
its silentious murmur
the breath that dances
in illuminated patches
The corner of urban disconnection
It's a bird's flight
Within the life of mist
That surrounds us
Here, we are everywhere,
We sway in the mist
We are a universe,
With suns that dance
With us, fireflies,
Hyperactivity in the bones
Because we see
The life of mist
Vad viata din ceata
Suflarea ce danseaza
In bucati de lumina
Coltul deconectarii urbane
E zbor de pasari,
Transa ce mangaie
In viata cetii
Ce ne invaluie
Aici, suntem peste tot,
Ne leganam in ceata
Suntem un univers
Cu sori ce danseaza
Cu noi, licurici,
Hiperactivitate in oase
Pentru ca vedem
Viata din ceata
Paper CranesTo take to the stars
On weightless wings of gilded trees
That never fail
And never cease;
A rapid continuum of beauty,
Dusk’s rays diffusing through the firmament
Bringing cerulean licked midnight greys on crest.
Twinkling eyes to light their predestined path
Blinking only when a cloud passes by.
They shiver and twitch…
The metal hands of tinkerous man
Wrapped lovingly around their fragility.
The room is seeping with anticipation
When placed one by one on the sill.
They shiver and twitch…
Wings bend on delicate creases
Testing limitations with quick mischievous flaps
The moon casts her spell on the windowsill
Luring in the essence
Illuminating the thousand works of art
Before they rise into the expectant night
To take to the stars
Paint Across the SkiesMy kinship ties with
The whistling winds
And the drum that is my heart.
None know the skies like I
And none can feel its beauty-
While I paint across the skies for you
My lanterns in the night
Touch unto the mountains high
Open arms of guiding light
For the souls of all to know
My domain above the clouds.
As I swim across the twilight
I marvel at you humans,
I will greet you all, some day,
Our lives will never know dusk
Safe from the terrors in the shadows
I am the Light, I am the Aurora.
Cruel WeatherThe brutal winds
Carry out their abuses in the dark
So when morning comes
The bruised clouds can say nothing
And we think that it's just the way the weather goes
Snow FallThe perfect snow drifts perilously to the earth. It twirls in the wind. Twisting in the air as the heat pushes past. the wind is always pouring from among high in an effort to find balance. The only result is turbulence. Breath of desperate pleas beat flakes and trees alike as the fall continues. Landing is most dreadful. There is no control for the frozen patterns. No means of reason to attempt to succeed. Cars blaring horns blaze on the ground. It gets close and the wind meets it and bends to the curvature of the hood. Flakes are tossed on a wave of movement. Unseeing and caring. Some lose their majestic form as they lie in puddles. They land softly, always softly. A perk of design and kindness. It hovers for a moment. The tension passes as the blanket of comfort fades away. Laying in water, dirt is pulled up over the crystals. It is warm now. Strange. It dissipates as a teardrop and mixes with that which fell before. Next time, a field perhaps.